My God. Every time the Celebrity blows through town, I feel as if I've been hit by a tornado. These days, he's usually only here for one night at a time (most often a weeknight) and he inevitably has to get up at some ungodly hour, so there is always a lot of action - and very little sleep - packed into those short hours of his visit.

That is because the Celebrity is a one-man drinking, f*cking, partying machine. On the days after his visits, I am always in an exhausted daze and my condo looks like a war zone. I have usually had more s*x in a few hours than I thought possible with a man over age 18.

I've also gotten a truckload of compliments and affection and attention - because the Celebrity may know how to party like a rock star (for the record, he is not a rock star), but he is nonetheless focused on me like a laser when we're together. So even though he runs me ragged (yours truly is not a partying machine), that kind of attention - from someone who lives everything to the hilt, from work to adventure to relationships - is addictive.

If not exactly restful.